Chapter 22
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
SADIE
The hallway spins beneath my feet, closing in, suffocating me until all the air is scooped out of my lungs and I can’t breathe.
Lane’s words echo through me, slicing again and again like he’s still spitting them in my face.
I can’t bring myself to look at him—at any of them. My eyes are cemented to the floor, the scuffed toe of my boot, the splatter of Lane’s blood, Wesley’s shadow as he shifts closer.
Landon’s voice is low and firm when he says it’s time to call it a night.
Lane mutters something under his breath, spitting more blood onto the floor and turning away, his footsteps fading down the hallway.
I don’t take a full breath until he’s gone.
The quiet that follows is thick. My chest burns from holding everything in—like the stupid flicker of hope I’d let myself feel tonight. All of it is collapsing in on itself.
Finally, I lift my eyes, slowly dragging them up from the floor.
Wesley is the first one I see—he’s the only one I see.
The rigid set of his shoulders. The way his fists clench and unclench at his sides.
His jaw is tight, his dark gaze fixed on his bloody hand.
I can feel the guilt rolling off him in waves.
Landon shifts on his feet, eyes flicking between me and Wesley. He doesn’t say a word, but I still feel the weight of what he’s not asking. Finally, he gives me a short nod and tips his head toward the main room.
When we step out of the hallway, the air shifts again.
Lydia and Emmett are waiting near the door, flushed and grinning, Lydia’s laugh carrying through the entire bar. Emmett’s arm is draped around her shoulders, both of them so blissfully unaware, so whole. I feel shattered just looking at them.
“Hey! There you guys are!” Lydia beams. Her words are slurred, soft, and warm. She has no idea. Neither of them do.
It takes everything I have left to scrape together a smile.
Landon claps Emmett on his back, squeezing his shoulder and slipping easily back into his carefree role. He drapes his arm around Lydia’s shoulders as the three of them walk out.
Wesley steps past me, holding the door open without a word. I stumble slightly, drunk enough that the world is tilted and fuzzy, but not enough to forget.
The weight of Wesley’s hand around my waist steadies me and I give in to the urge to lean into his touch. But he quickly pulls away as we emerge in the parking lot, the night air hitting me like ice on my fevered skin.
I can’t tell if I want to scream or laugh or cry. Probably a combination of all three.
They didn’t see Lane in the hallway.
They don’t know what happened in the bathroom. The things Wesley whispered in my ear. I still feel the ghost of his hands on me like they’re branded there—and I’m just supposed to pretend everything is fine.
The ride back is silent and, as if this night couldn’t get any worse, Lydia, Emmett, and Landon all climbed into the back seat, leaving me no choice but to ride up front—right next to Wesley.
His hands tighten on the wheel. I can see it in the corner of my vision—the way his knuckles go white, the way his chest rises like he wants to say something, the way he swallows it back down instead.
I hate that I let Lane get to me. I hate the way his words haven’t stopped replaying on a loop in my head.
Do they get to use you all at the same time?
I’m mortified. He took my worst fears and brought them to life. Is that how Wesley sees me? He’s just getting his turn, and then he’ll toss me to the next in line?
Shame curls hot and bitter in my stomach. Because even worse than Lane’s words is the silence coming from the driver’s seat.
He hasn’t said one word since we left the hallway. I’m desperate for him to break the silence and say something.
God, I need him to.
Need him to tell me Lane was full of shit. To tell me this thing between us is real and not a mistake. To tell me I matter to him.
But he doesn’t. He just turns up the music like it will magically drown out everything else.
The truck hums along the dark road, headlights slicing through the night. My heart aches as I press my forehead to the cool glass of the window, willing myself not to cry.
This is why they say hope is evil. It lures you in with the illusion of what could be, only to keep it forever out of reach.
I can’t worry about what it means that he touched me like that. That he whispered those things in my ear.
Wesley and I will never be more.
And that reality hurts more than any cruel words Lane could say.
By the time we pull into the main house, I realize the numbness I’d been chasing found me all on its own.
Wesley shifts into park and cuts the engine.
Emmett and Lydia, who had fallen asleep, slowly come to.
Landon mutters something about a bucket of water as he swings the door open and hops out.
Lydia tosses her head back in laughter as she climbs out after Emmett, tripping over her own feet and snorting when Emmett catches her.
I’m still buckled, frozen in my seat.
Wesley fidgets with the keys and the truck rocks slightly as doors are slammed shut.
The laughter fades, swallowed by the night as they funnel into the house.
It’s just us, and he still won’t look at me. He hasn’t said a word, and only when my lungs feel like they’re going to burst do I realize I’ve been holding my breath.
The silence should feel like a relief after the noise consuming my every thought, but it doesn’t. It feels like drowning.
Say something. Anything.
I turn my head slowly, watching him in the dark. The angle of his jaw. The tension in his shoulders. I can’t read him. And I hate that.
Does he feel what I feel?
Does he regret what we did?
“Wesley.”
It comes out softer than I mean it to. A plea more than a word.
He still doesn’t look at me. But his grip tightens on the keys, his chest rises with a slow breath. Then, finally—finally—he speaks.
“I’m sorry.” His voice is rough. Quiet.
My throat tightens. “What for?”
He turns his head a fraction. Not enough to meet my eyes. Just enough to keep me waiting.
“I wanted to say something. I wanted to—I wanted to kill him for talking about you like that.”
I blink hard, staring at his profile in the dark. “Why didn’t you? Say something, I mean.”
He exhales through his nose. “Because if he’d have kept going, I would’ve hit him again, and if Landon hadn’t stepped in…I don’t think I would’ve been able to stop.”
His words land somewhere deep. A place that aches to be defended—to be chosen.
The silence stretches again. But it’s changed now. Warmer.
“He was wrong.” His voice drops to a barely audible whisper. “You matter to me, Sadie.”
My heart catches. I want to believe him. I want to reach for him.
He finally looks at me and it’s enough to make my chest cave in. His amber eyes are so heavy with guilt it feels like it’s pressing down on me too.
It’s too much.
“Sadie—”
“Don’t.” My voice cracks. I shake my head quickly, looking away. “Please.”
Inside, we tiptoe up the stairs, trying to avoid the creaks that always sound louder at night.
Every step feels slower, heavier, like the air is thickening around us.
The house is eerily dark and quiet; everyone’s already settled in for the night.
Landon’s crashing on the couch, too drunk to make the walk over to the bunkhouse, and I’m sure Lydia has already climbed into my bed and stolen my favorite pillow for herself.
We both stop when we reach my door. He’s so close I can feel the heat of him at my back. When I turn to face him, he’s right there.
The space between us feels charged, one spark away from igniting. My chest tightens, my skin prickles, and all I can think is how badly I want to sink into him and forget. Erase every awful thing Lane said and forget that this is only temporary.
Even if it’s just once.
His hand twitches at his side, like he wants to touch me but doesn’t trust himself to.
But he doesn’t kiss me. He doesn’t pick me up and carry me into my room and whisper sweet nothings into my ear as we both come. Instead, he shoves his hands into his pockets and turns to walk toward his own room.
“Wait. I—” My voice breaks. I try again, softer. “I don’t want to be alone tonight.”
My confession hangs there, naked and raw.
He turns back to me, something flickering in his eyes—want, restraint, regret all tousled together.
Then, slowly, he reaches up. His knuckles brush my cheek, feather light, before falling away. It’s the gentlest touch, and it still wrecks me.
He leans down, close enough that I can feel his breath against my temple. “Okay.”
Then he takes my hand in his, leading me down the hallway toward his bedroom. My heart is beating so hard it almost hurts.
He hesitates with his hand on the knob as he looks over to me. “Are you sure?”
I nod, though my throat feels tight.
Does he think I mean something else?
I just want him. His presence. To not be without him in a room where the distance would eat me alive.
He opens the door and the lingering scent of cedar, clean laundry, and him hits me. It’s intoxicating.
I hover just inside the doorway, nerves prickling under my skin as I look around. It feels like trespassing—like I’ve stepped into a part of him no one else gets to see.
It’s darker than I expected. Cool and quiet, like him. A single lamp glows near the bed, casting soft golden light over the neatly made deep green duvet. He’s so put together, there’s even a fucking throw pillow. A half-finished paperback book sits on the nightstand. He reads.
Order. Discipline. Control. The air hums with Wesley’s presence. Every detail is stamped with his touch—so unmistakably him.
And the longer I stand here, surrounded by everything that is him, the less I know if it’s nerves tightening in my chest—or something far more dangerous sparking low inside me.
He’s combing through a drawer like this is completely normal—me standing in his room. Then he pulls out a soft, oversized T-shirt and holds it out to me.